


piano keys

by graveofthesun



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Tsukishima plays piano, yamaguchi likes art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveofthesun/pseuds/graveofthesun
Summary: Yamaguchi is curious about the piano player.
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	piano keys

Yamaguchi had never really paid attention to the people around him. Never that close to anyone but not often alone either. He just wandered through his uneventful life, talking to whoever was there or no one at all. But now that he’s back, he is suddenly overly aware of who is around him. How they act, how loudly they speak, how long their gazes stay on him.

Now, more detached from people than ever, he takes time to analyse his options in friends. He used to speak to Oikawa and Iwaizumi a little, but Oikawa’s fake facade was a poor imitation of his own and he was way too nosy for Yamaguchi’s liking. Then there’s Kuroo and Bokuto, who are immediately out of the question because their sudden screams will surely elicit a worrying amount of flinching and Yamaguchi isn’t willing to explain that.

Kenma not only hangs around Kuroo too often but is also much too perceptive. Then there’s Akaashi, who Yamaguchi really doesn’t mind. If he ever finds him alone maybe he’ll strike up a short conversation. Unlikely but his choices are nothing short of limited.

He realises how conceited he sounds, but if he’s completely honest he couldn’t care less.

The school he attends is international and has a focus on sports, any and every kind. There are two gyms, outside tennis courts and even a swimming pool just down the road. Academics are sub-par, with a few labs scattered in the main building, cramped classrooms and a library the size of a closet. All that leaves little to no space for anything creative-related.

The art room is split into two, the larger part in the basement, a relatively empty room housing a few easels and a sink littered with paint brushes. The other section is right above, accessed through a concerningly narrow staircase. Mostly it is used to store old artwork. It’s stuffy and almost always humid, but it’s always deserted. And really - that’s all that matters.

So that’s how he ends up in the art department, on the third day of school, where he’s eaten everyday since the beginning of the school year. His routine had quickly settled into eating his food - usually a bread roll or just a drink - whilst staring at the wall or a piece of art.

Then he’ll sift through a few papers on the floor or lift a canvas and study them till his eyes burn and the pictures are so ingrained in his memory he can focus on every mistake in his head for the following few classes. He’ll think about the blotchiness of brush strokes instead of a maths equation he’s supposed to be working through. He’ll fixate on how the lack of empty space crowds a painting and undermines the whole thing instead of listening to his teacher mumble about some hugely impactful treaty or other.

Just as he starts to run his finger over the etching marks of the piece of plastic he’s holding, a note plays. A piano note. Then another and another, stretching into a gentle scale up and falling back down to where it started.

Yamaguchi distantly notes that the only piano room is right next door, much too focused on the next string of notes that flows through the wall. The slow rise and fall is reminiscent of a sleepy breath, a chest swelling with air and then releasing it all in one fluid motion.

Yamaguchi abandons the etching as he crawls silently to the other side of the room and rests his back against the wall. Eyes closed, he matches his breathing to the pace of the scales, soaking in the sound and letting a gentle blanket of warmth and comfort fall over him.

•

The next day Yamaguchi sits in his seat at the very back of the class, mindlessly doodling in his notebook with his black ball point pen. His doodles consist of sketches of faces, some with the eyes completely black; roughly drawn clocks; graves adorned with upside down crosses; bold, angrily written words ranging from something dark like ‘teeth’ to a more meaningless like ‘noodles’. All of it is layered with scribbling, a jumble of intertwining lines filling all the space until the entire page is black chaos with now almost indistinguishable shapes. He has almost four pages done by now.

Yamaguchi allows his thoughts to drift back to the piano, how he had sat there listening to it until the bell had rung. The obvious fluidity of every arpeggio stayed with him throughout his classes, practised melodies sounding so easily natural.

He had laid awake on his bed, imagining hands hovering above piano keys. The canvas was blank, he had nothing to draw an image from so he left them white as a sheet of paper in his minds eye, mirroring the hue of the ivory keys. He imagined slender bony fingers, bending and flexing to the music. He wondered if they’d ever be back, whoever those hands belonged to.

As he was let out of class he packed up and headed straight for the art room, facing the floor the entire way to avoid eye contact.

Sat on the messy floor, he pulled a juice box out of his bag and picked an oil painting from a stack in a futile attempt to rip his mind from the anxious ball forming in his gut from not knowing if he’d hear the piano player again. If they’d come back or if Yamaguchi would sit there, pressed against the wall, forever waiting for some unknown person to start playing-

The soft press of keys broke hime from his spiralling, and he let out a quiet breath of relief. He sunk into a sleepy daze, eyes open this time, roving over the still life painting in his hands. The same slow warm ups play. Time trickles by, and the end of break is nearing when the piano starts to play a new sort of tune. This one isn’t a calculated exercise, this is a quiet little melody. One note at a time, not leading anywhere, no spikes or dips in sound just steady. Like floating on water.

Just like that, he settles into a new routine - or rather just incorporates the piano into his usual one. The pianist gets more adventurous as the days go by, never straying far from a melancholy melody but allowing them to become more complex. They’ll play a song and practise it repeatedly until they can do it without mistakes. Sometimes circling back to a piece from a previous day.

Three weeks have passed since the pianist started playing during lunch. September is slipping into October, autumnal leaves decorate the pavements, plastered together in clumps by the rain like some poorly made paper maché. On one particularly foggy morning Yamaguchi makes his way to the piano room. He holds the neon green sticky note in his palm and notes that he has yet again failed to remember an umbrella for the third time that week, meaning he is inevitably going to get drenched and worsen the cold that’s already scratching the back of his throat.

The note simply reads:

Unmasked by Adelisé

He hopes the pianist - as he has come to call him in his head - will understand that its a song request.

Much to his delight, the very next day a familiar song is being played. Not flawlessly at first but by the end of that lunch Yamaguchi can practically see how comfortable the pianists hands are with the notes, the melody, every beat burned into their muscle memory. Hands which turn out to be the root of many daydreams.

He returns to the piano room later that day, curious to see if the pianist had left his sticky note or taken it off the piano. He finds the bright green paper still on the instrument, only this time there is a question mark.

For him.  
The pianist was questioning him.

Yamaguchi felt a pleasant flush run through him, he hasn’t had much human contact recently and this was new and thrilling even if it was simply one question mark.

Because one question mark led to so much more.

He wrote back ‘thank you - you play very well’ then began his walk home under the pelting rain.

•

The newest addition to Yamaguchi’s routine didn’t change much, he always came to school far too early to avoid the crowded morning corridors, only now he had a small detour to the music room. Every time a sticky note was full he would replace it and bring the used one home, keeping it tucked away neatly in a little tin box in his room.

The first few go :

Who are you?

Where’s the fun in knowing that?

At least give me a clue

Noo, the mystery is part of the fun

You could be some old creep

Some old creep just walking around school without anyone noticing to listen to piano?  
Seems like a bit of a stretch

I guess you have a point  
Are you a guy or a girl?

If you don’t start asking more interesting questions i might just stop replying.

Thats a lie.

Who says i want you to reply?

Would you be writing if you didn’t?

Do you listen to me play everyday?

Yup.

Creep

Sigh. We’ve been over this.

Yamaguchi felt closer to the pianist than he had to maybe anyone ever. He learnt that they started playing when they were ten, that they love halloween and everything pumpkin flavoured, that they were in fact in his year and they absolutely despise their maths teacher. In turn he told them that he loved cats and wants piercings when he’s older.

•

Yamaguchi keeps having this recurring dream, of floating face up in water, listening to the piano. His body rises and falls with the waves, following the sound of distant music he can never remember when he wakes up. The water is always heavy, the colour of charcoal. It starts off lukewarm, then Yamaguchi moves, sits up to see the shadow of someone sitting by a piano, rocking gently. Their features are always blurry, like a smudged pencil sketch, except their hands. Their long fingers, sharp and clear.

The piano melts, dripping down to become part of the water, grey smoke liquifying in midair and turning into an ebony syrup. A scream tears through Yamaguchi, ripping up his throat but none of it matters - not the pain, not the water rising and filling his lungs, none of it - because he’s losing them. The pianist is slipping away and all Yamaguchi can do is drown and he’s drowning he’s drowning he’s-

Awake.

It’s halloween today, the pianist’s favourite time of year. He has on his usual dark grey hoodie, with the arms long enough to cover his hands, black mom jeans with frayed legs letting the fishnets peek through a little. He decided on the rather unconventional piece of clothing because, even though they would never know, he wanted to dress up for the pianist. He wore his old, scuffed doc martins and had his hair up in a small ponytail.

He sat waiting for the pianist to begin, a sculpture of two people dancing in his hands. He held it gently, careful of the cracks in the clay, admiring the perfect proportions, the detail in the pointe shoes, every smooth curve and dip in their bodies.

Footsteps sounded from the bottom of the steps. Yamaguchi sat, frozen, watching the door. Would they kick him out? Lock the door so he couldn’t come anymore? Take away his safe space? Take away his pianist?

The door swung open quietly, revealing a tall boy with fair skin and glasses, his blond hair slightly curly. He stood in the doorway for a second, unmoving.

“Hello”

“Hi” Yamaguchi replies, slightly confused.

Blond boy’s face twists into something like discomfort, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Then he moves forward, into the room and says:

“I’m Tsukishima Kei, I play the piano next door.”

Yamaguchi’s brain stuttered for a few moments in shock, mouth falling open slightly. Sure he had imagined the pianist countless times, conjured up images of what his face could look like but he never imagined he’d be this.. this pretty.

“Yamaguchi Tadashi,” he manages to answer. Then, “you know for someone who loves halloween you sure don’t show it,” he says looking at the plain blue jeans and cream coloured sweater.

Tsukishima smiles, a small amused smile that sends Yamaguchi face first into cardiac arrest. He steps forward again and closes the door.

“You’re in my science classes I think.”

Yamaguchi turns slightly pale, “oh shit” the curse word does something weird to Tsukishima’s heart, who decides to ignore it. “I’m sorry, I don’t really pay attention in that class”

“In maths and psychology either then?” He teases.

Colour suddenly rushes back into Yamaguchi’s face, embarrassment forcing his head down, “Oops?”

Tsukishima says nothing, drinking in the sight of Yamaguchi’s blush.

“What’s this?” He asks, nodding towards the piles of artwork.

So Yamaguchi starts talking about the pieces, happy to move past his humiliation. He talks about how the school mistreats so many amazing pieces and how he doesn’t want them to be lost to everyones memory so he goes through them. Appreciating each one while criticising them as well. He talks about how if no one remembers them because they’ve been stuffed away into some closet they have no more value; if they aren’t remembered or seen do they have any purpose at all?

And Tsukishima listens, coming to sit opposite Tadashi, not interrupting or taking his attention away from the other boy.

At some point Yamaguchi trails off, “Sorry, i’m speaking your ear off-“

“No, it’s alright. I like listening to you. After all you’ve been doing all the listening for a while now.”

Yamaguchi smiles shyly, “I’m a bit of an art nerd, I guess” he admits.

Now it’s Tsukishima’s turn to smile “I’m a bit of a literature nerd then. And a science one.”

Yamaguchi’s eyes light up, “Oh yeah?” he breathes, “What’s your favourite book?”

Tsukishima turns his head up in thought, exposing a pale neck. Yamaguchi’s eyes follow his adams apple as he swallows, catching his breath when he turns to look back at him.

“Empire of the Sun. By J.G. Ballard,” they hold eye contact.

“I haven’t read that. Maybe I’ll go by the library later.” Yamaguchi hums.

He feels content, surprisingly serene in the presence of someone he just met. His shoulders relax.

“My favourite is Never Let Me Go.”

“Kazuo Ishiguro?”

Yamaguchi smiles, a smile that pulls gently at the edges of his lips and makes Tsukishima’s chest feel warm. “Yeah, have you read it?”.

They fall into easy conversation, wading through books, subjects and ending up at clubs.

“I play volleyball” says Tsukishima.

“Middle blocker?” Tsukishima’s slight pout confirms it. “I used to play. Before I moved.”

“Before you moved here?”

Yamaguchi shakes his head, “Before I moved away from here.”

He can see the question in Tsukishima’s eyes, but he says nothing. Yamaguchi decides that they could become really good friends, right then and there.

“What position.”

Yamaguchi snorts and Tsukishima rolls his eyes. Still, he says “Guess.”

Tskishima looks up again, and Yamaguchi wonders if that what he always does to think. He smiles imagining Tsukishima looking at the ceiling half the time during a test.

“Wing spiker?”

“Pinch server” he replies.

The bells rips through the air. They stand up and leave the room.

“What class do you have?”

“English”

“I have history, so I’m going this way”

“Bye”

•

That night Yamaguchi has the dream again, only this time the shadow playing piano is clearer.

•

The next day Yamaguchi stops by the art room again, but he doesn’t stay long. He picks up two watercolours; one depicts a woman’s face framed with red curly hair, the other is a shrivelled up water bottle being held lightly by a hand from the cap and more hands reaching up for it at the bottom of the page.

He takes them with him as he leaves, no one in the art department blinks an eye at him. He climbs up the steps and down a hallway, hood up and eyes on the ground.

The music room’s door has a small rectangular window looking into it. Inside he sees Tsukishima sitting at the piano. It’s black and shiny, sat right in the middle of the room like a throne.

The room is bright, soft light filtered through cream coloured curtains, Tsukishima blends in with his buttery blond hair and a knitted sweater the colour of sand. The piano sits in stark contrast with the rest of the room.

“Mind if I listen in here today?” He asks as he walks through the door.

Tsukishima looks up and answers with a smile.

Yamaguchhi sits against the back wall and watches Tsukishima’s side profile as he starts to play. Little warm ups that Yamaguchi has heard plenty of times. He follows Tsukishima’s slim fingers glide over ivory keys, realising just how accurate his mind’s illustration of them had been.

They sit there together, in the calm quiet, each indulging in their own art. Yamaguchi’s finger tips slide over the paper and paint, while Tsukishima’s press rhythmically into the piano keys.

They slip in and out of conversation, exchanging small, meaningless words and clement banter.

“Are you going anywhere for the holidays?” Tsukishima asks.

“Nope, staying here and doing absolutely nothing for a week. You?”

“Same here... Hey, can i get your number?”

Yamaguchi wiggles his eyebrows, “making moves so soon” he teases.

Tsukishima huffs. “So I’m not as bored in the holidays, dumbass.”

Yamaguchi laughs and passes his phone over, while taking Tsukishima’s.

“Did you know an eel can grow up to 28 ft long?”

Yamaguchi gapes, “No fucking way”

“Just kidding” he smiles, “longest one ever recorded is only 20 ft. Called the giant conger eel.”

Yamaguchi tilts his head back “Like that makes it any better!”

Tsukishima smiles as well, pointedly ignoring the warmth that swells in his chest when he looks at Yamaguchi.

•

The holidays come and go, passing by in a blur of messages and late night calls. Hours mesh into each other, the sun runs it’s course faster than ever before.

The morning of the first day back, Yamaguchi receives a text reminding him to bring his umbrella.

When he arrives at his locker, the hallway is completely deserted. He pulls out the books he needs and starts walking to maths class. He enjoys the loud silence of the empty school, it’s calming to experience the flip side of the raucous rooms of over-exited teenagers.

He steps into a bathroom, and sees something he didn’t expect. Sat on the window sill is Tsukishima, a blunt held lightly between his fingers. On the floor at his feet are Kuroo and Bokuto, each holding a cigarette of their own. Bokuto cuts clean through an animated speech to look up at him.

“Hey, hey! Yamaguchi! I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Hey” he replies, his voice comes out quieter than he would’ve liked.

Tsikishima holds out his cigarette in question, “You smoke?”

“Tobacco?”

“Yeah.”

Yamaguchi walks up to them and takes a drag, keeping it in for a second before letting the smoke curl of his lips.

Kuroo watches the scene unfold with an air of silent curiosity.

“You two know eachother?!” Bokuto half-screams.

“We have some classes together.” Tsukishima answers, to which Bokuto nods vehemently, somewhat resembling a puppy.

“I should get going” Yamaguchi says. He gives them a small smile and leaves before Bokuto can finish shouting his farewell.

His chest is constricting, the sound of his breathing is getting more and more muffled.  
He forgot how hard talking to people had gotten ever since..

•

Later that day, Tsukishima brings it up. They’d been in the piano room again, Yamaguchi on top of the piano scrutinising a paper maché rose, while Tsukishima worked through a new piece, stopping every few bars to repeat it in a more fluid rhythm.

Yamaguchi enjoys sitting atop the piano, he feels closer to the music, it pulses up through the wood and seeps into him. Encases him and pulls him down and into the music.

He’s playing Wishes by Alexis Ffrench.

It had been quiet before Tsukishima said, ‘You didn’t seem to like Kuroo and Bokuto very much.’ It sounded more like a question.

‘Nothing against them personally, just not a people person.’ Yamaguchi replies lightly.

‘Surprising.’ He mumbles.

‘Really?’

‘In some ways.’

‘Which ways?’ He asks, just to make conversation.

Tsukishima shrugs, ‘You put up with me.’ he says, as if he’s stating the obvious.

‘You’re right. I should put that on my resume: a year of charity in highschool.’

Tsukishima laughs despite himself and the conversation is somehow launched into a heated debate over the best colour of hex-bugs.

•

The visits start with a psychology project, one about enculturation (they each got an A), they go to Yamaguchi’s house. The conversation went something like this;

“My brother has his friends over, and my mom would make a big deal out of it.”

“My parents won’t be home.”

“Yours then?”

“Yup.”

The project came and went, and Tsukishima kept coming. He comes once every two days, when he doesn’t have volleyball practice after school.

They always stay in Yamaguchi’s room, sometimes on his bed or his floor, even his desk when they have to cram studying in the day before a test.

Tsukishima runs the pads of his fingers over the bronze skin of Yamaguchi’s thigh. He traces patterns he finds in the freckles, adding pressure to particularly dense clutters. His touch ghosts over the deep purple stretch marks that decorate the inside of his thighs, appreciates and adores every aspect of an increasingly frustrated boy.

“You’re distracting me.” Yamaguchi voices.

“Tragic.” He deadpans in return.

But he pulls his fingers away, pressing a soft kiss on the boys leg before resting his head on his lap. Yamaguchi breathes out, letting his fingers thread through light blonde hair. His fingernails graze Tsukishima’s scalp and curls of hair slip like velvet from his fingers when he tugs tenderly.

He flips a page of his booklet and asks, “Can I call you Kei?”  
As the word slides off his tongue he savours the taste of it, of saying it in the presence of the boy who wears neutral colours and knitted sweatshirts, the boy who gives him food at lunch when he doesn’t have any, the boy who plays piano for him everyday. The boy he may or may not be falling in love with.

“Would that mean i can call you Tadashi?” And oh no, he’s definitely falling.

“Sure.” He murmurs, trying to ignore the way his heart is high above everything else with joy yet still somehow plunging down, down, down and ripping right through his chest.

“Okay then.” The breathlessness in Tsukishima’s reply is lost to Yamaguchi, who’s too busy trying to quieten his heartbeat.

Soon Tsukishima’s breathing deepens. Yamaguchi looks down at him, taking in the smooth curve of his cheek, pink lips pushed into a sleepy pout, small nose and burns it into his memory.

He removes the other boy’s glasses, and as he holds them in his hands he wonders how much force it would take to snap them in two. If he laid both thumbs on the lenses and pressed, would his thumbs break through the glass? Would it cut him deep enough for blood to spill down his hands? Would the glass fall on the sleeping boy in his lap? Would he get cut too?

He sets the glasses down and rubs his eyes, abandoning his reading and laying his back on the floor.

•

It’s a random December day, angry grey clouds had tumbled over the city, spitting and growling at the world below. Tsukishima stayed, agreeing to wait until the weather sobered up a little.

Tsukishima was sat on the bed, reading a romance book he was assigned in english. Yamaguchi was laying down face-up on the floor next to the bed, mentally sorting through the homework he had to do.

“They always do this,” Tsukishima complains, “it’s too unrealistic.” Yamaguchi sits up and rests his face on the edge of his bed. “Nobody actually blushes this much in real life.”

“Is that a challenge?” Yamaguchi asks, putting on the most innocent face he can manage.

Tsukishima huffs.

Challenge accepted, Kei.

He sits up fully, climbing onto the bed and crawling right up close to the other boy’s face.

He licks his lips, complements Tsukishima’s hair, says he’s the prettiest boy he knows. The small smirk on Tsukishima’s face pushes him further, he starts to crave a reaction. He wants to see blood rush into his pale cheeks, to see his eyes widen slightly in shock, he wants to see him flustered.

So he comes closer, lets his breath ghost over Tsukishima’s cheek as he moves to the side. Then, as he’s practically sitting on the other’s lap, he slides his tongue over his ear, following the curve with the tip of his tongue. He reaches his earlobe, going down a little further then pressing a small kiss to the skin just below his ear.

He leans back, smiling victoriously at the bright pink tint of Tsukishima’s face.

“I win.” He whispers. He climbs off, still smiling as he watches his friend try to get over his flushed state.

Later that same day they are in the middle of a argument over the worst slushy flavour (definetly melon) when they hear the door slam open downstairs.

Yamaguchi gets up saying, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

All that is heard from his room is discordant racket; incoherent mumbling, muted thumps of things falling to the ground, the sound of furniture being hit messily.

When Yamaguchi comes back, cheeks slightly red, Tsukishima doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask if the red is because he’s flushed from physical effort or from the slaps he’s only half sure he heard. He doesn’t ask who it was, what they said, or where they are now.

He doesn’t ask any of it because he’s scared of the answer.

And Yamaguchi doesn’t answer it.

•

With January comes snow, falling prettily onto the pavement like icing then laughing with it’s cold breath as soon as we go outside because no amount of layers is ever enough. A modern mimic of Dolos.

Though the snow isn’t all that bad: it taints Kei’s cheeks and the tip of his nose a shade of pink that Yamaguchi associates with clouds and cotton candy. It makes him shiver lightly when he takes off his jacket and it makes his head drown in the waves of his scarf.

There are two more things that come with January; the first is burns. Kei began bringing extra food nearly as soon as they started meeting each other in the music room, now he bring two full meals everyday. Warm ones. He brings soup in thermal containers that almost kill Yamaguchi because that is so cute. He no longer has any taste in his mouth and his tongue feels like it is constantly buzzing but he wouldn’t give the hot meals up for the world.

The second thing is a tape recorder. A present he bought himself for Christmas, he wanted to record the piano pieces but doing it on a phone seemed inappropriate.

Yamaguchi cherishes every recording, they spend hours getting the best play and then Yamaguchi spends hours listening to them when he’s tucked away in bed. The black device has become his refuge from the cold, from reality;his safe place when Tsukki isn’t around.

One song in particular caught his attention. He asked Tsukishima about it after he played.  
“It’s called The Piano Duet. It’s in Corpse Bride.”

“Is that a movie?”

Tsukishima leans back slightly in shock, “You’ve never seen it? It’s Tom Burton, it’s quite famous.”

Yamaguchi shakes his head and claims to have never heard of the movie or Tim Burton. Tsukishima is positively enraged, so they schedule a movie binge for that evening.

Yamaguchi leans over from where he’s sat on the piano, watching Kei’s sylphlike fingers and focusing so intensely that the colours of his skin and the keys blend together.

When he starts to imagine snapping a finger at the joint he averts his eyes to Kei’s face.

He thinks of grabbing his hair and smashing it into his own knee. What would shatter first? He supposes his knee would, the image of skull meeting bone and an ominous crack and his knee is dislodged. He envisions pulling away his hand from blond curls to find his nails dipped in red from where they dug too far into tsukki’s head.  
He closes his eyes tightly to remove the thoughts but just ends up making them more vivid.

It isn’t him, he repeats like a prayer. It is not him.

•

He should’ve seen it coming. It was all going so well. Much too well. He was too happy in the comfort of his sheets, Kei pressed at his side as they watched their third Tim Burton movie of the night. He was too happy about the popcorn and chocolate. The warmth, that sweet and salty taste of joy was always going to be stripped away.

The door was swung open first, that was followed by the desperate grating screams of a woman downstairs. Amidst the panic in both the voice and the two boys’ eyes, Yamaguchi managed to herd Kei onto the roof right outside the window.

The shouting came closer, words became clearer.

"Get the fuck away from him you sick bastard!" The hinges of the bedroom door made a sound to rival the screeching of the woman.

“Where is he Tadashi?!" Her voice broke near the end, "I’ll kill that motherfucker. I know he’s here."

“He isn’t here mom." Yamaguchi spoke, keeping his voice practiced and steady as he could.

"Don’t lie to me child. Where the fuck is he?" Her tumultuous cries got louder with every heavy beating of Tadashi’s heart.

Everything was buzzing, his ears were stuffed with cotton and his cheek burned. Somehow he was on the floor but his mother continued on thrashing around his room.

"He’s in jail mom!"

Silence.

His mother had gone completely still, like her switch had been turned off and she no longer had power over her limbs.

He got up and laid his hands on her shoulders.

“He isn’t here," he mutters as he brings his mother to her bedroom.

She doesn’t close her eyes. Just lies staring at the ceiling, completely empty.

When he returns they don’t finish the movie. They sit out on the roof together instead, Yamaguchi now has a blunt in his hand and also possibly hypothermia.

“My dad wanted custody and went too far. My mom... is a little possessive”

“Are you okay?” Tsukishima asks quietly.

“I would tell you if i wasn’t.”

“Promise?”

"Promise." He hates how certain he sounds, because he knows it’s a lie.

•

He repeats the words “I’m sorry,” muttering them into the air and hoping that when Kei walks in later he might hear them in the silence.

The recorder plays loudly by his ear, playing the piano duet.

Where Kei is soft and delicate Tadashi is harsh and broken. Why did he stick around for so long?

The higher you fly, the steeper your fall will be, he thinks.

Tadashi wishes they’d be quiet, he can’t hear Tsukishima playing.

•

“He’s probably just got a cold,” says Kuroo.

“Yeah, yeah probably.” Tsukishima replies. “What do you get for sick people?”

“Uhhh, medicine and porridge?” Bokuto suggests.

So after school, before going to see Yamaguchi, he goes to the convenience store. The air on the way to his house is the same as always, biting and stinging the vulnerable skin of his face. The houses he passes by stand the same as everyday, the birds are just as quiet and the cars murmur the same even buzz.

The door bell sounds the exact same. There is no noise. No noise after the first or the second or the fifth ring. No noise except the beeping of his phone when Yamaguchi doesn’t pick up. No noise in the house as he walks up the stairs.

Then there’s faint, distant music. There’s the knocking of the bathroom door. He must be taking a bath. Except there’s still only music. He must be asleep, so the knocks get louder and louder and louder until he’s yelling and slapping his hands against the wood because there’s still no voice.

“Don’t do this! This isn’t funny Tadashi!”

Still no reply. His hands shake violently as he dials 112. His words all blur together, vision clouded with tears now running freely down his face and neck. And it’s tight, his chest is constricting more with every panicked breath, his throat is sore and aching. Nothing is real. Not the ambulance sirens, not the doctors trying to calm him down and certainly not the limp body hidden under the thin white sheet that was carried out of the bathroom.

Tsukishima heavily stands from where he’s collapsed on Yamaguchi’s floor. He tries to ignore every image of them in that very room, tries not to think about how prettily Yamaguchi had smiled and how he’ll never see him smile like that ever again.

He will, this is all fake, it’s his brain playing tricks on him. Yamaguchi will turn up at school tomorrow and listen to him play piano. He never got tired of that.

And he never will. Because he’ll be back. He has to be back.

There’s a book on Yamaguchi’s desk, the only thing there.

‘Empire of the Sun’ reads the front cover. Tsukishima doesn’t manage to hold back a broken sob.

He opens the book, there are paragraphs of annotations in scrawled handwriting. He reaches a page bookmarked with a piece of ripped paper. It says:

“i’m sorry i broke my promise. please remember me, Kei”

His world goes black, he stays curled up on Yamaguchi’s floor choking on his own tears until someone pulls him away.

He’s never coming back.


End file.
